


Punchline

by MorpheusEnMemori (Its_Darling)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gallows Humor, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Possible Character Death, Pre-Series, Trans!Spy, dunno I think it fits enough of the parameters of gallows humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 23:26:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11908413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Its_Darling/pseuds/MorpheusEnMemori
Summary: Before he became the BLU Spy, Lazare Devaux was dealing with the possibility that he was out of time.Arrested and knowing his fate to be a foregone conclusion, how does he react to a strange woman in purple with an Australian man in blue?A joke turned headcanon turned fic





	Punchline

**Author's Note:**

> As much as this is a foregone conclusion, just uh, trust me on this.  
> (also technically not connected with anything I've previously written)

                Being in a private prison of Interpol’s was hardly the worst thing Lazare has been in. Not a situation he intended on, but he was sorting out what they were going to do with him. What saved some time was that they were uncertain of his origins, birth name, and a variety of other factors. But they needed to settle a certain public outrage.  
                Just his luck he done something that muddled the line of their neutrality, and he knew some of the investigators were uncertain in their actions.  
                Lazare _presumed_ they sorted out he was French, and were about to hand him over to the French court systems. He had no illusions of what he faced, and was content with his fate for the most part. He’s reaching his forties, and the sentence he was expecting wasn’t the worst outcome for a saboteur like himself.

                But he’s back in the interrogation room, hands cuffed in front of him. From his counting, he’s been here an hour or so. Were they trying for a last minute interrogation? It would be pointless, but he supposed they were going to try before they shipped him the next agency over. He lamented he could not try to escape in the transport.

                Could try in the French prison system, Spanish ones were easier, but not the first one he broken free from. He would be running on such a thin timeframe…

                Lazare was humming a tune the way Fairouz would sing it, tapping his fingers on the table when he hears the door open. He was wondering if he could throw off this new interrogator, knowing that by giving far too much conflicting information he could escape many unpleasant questions. His eyes narrow when he hears two distinct footsteps: a steady military pace, and a quick clacking of heels.  
                Unexpected.

                The military sort comes first, leaning against the wall, face covered with sunglasses and the slouch hat tips Lazare that the man’s Australian. The clothing seems far too plain with the man far too thin to actually be Australian, but that hat was Australian military. The second is a woman far too young to be any ordinary one, carrying a mess of files that she allows to flop on the table as she sits down in front of him. She wears purple, seems exhausted, and when she opens her mouth, _very_ American.

                “Right. Lazare Devaux, right?” She asks, “Pauling. Just uh, call me Miss Pauling. The man over there, that’s Lawrence. A translator, if needed. I read your file, you do speak English, but just in case our chat uh, gets confusing for you.”

                So many questions. How did she know his preferred name? (Interpol gotten a vaguely French sounding ‘Jean-Claude Martin’). How does she have a file on him? (Interpol knew next to nothing about him, especially since he has no fingerprints and DNA testing for them brought up nothing). And… _why was she here_?

                “Quoi.” Lazare says.

                “I presume that’s a ‘what,’ my French is good enough to know what people are saying, but not to speak. So, let’s just say we have a lot to talk about.” She says, “Hoping this won’t be a waste of my time.”

                “Pourquoi.” Lazare says.

                “Alright off to a great start I see.” Pauling says, “Just. You’ll know the why soon. Let me explain.”

                So much is already over his head, and he leans back. He stares at the ceiling, wondering if this is a strange new interrogation method. He hears the worst accented French he has ever heard. The Australian, Lawrence, asking if he was fine.

                “ _I feel like I am in a dream, do you actually think I am fine?_ ” Lazare asks in French.

                “ _Probably not, you’ve been here for three weeks and you look like shit. We’re really here and Pauling is going to offer you something that might be worth your while. We know enough about your situation that you’re running out of options, pending if you actually thought you could get away._ ” Lawrence says.

                Three weeks, no shower, limited clothes… At least it wasn’t prison clothing, but his white shirt and suit pants would need replacing. That is, _if_ he got out. He sighs, looking between Pauling (who seems to have a habit of adjusting her glasses) and Lawrence. The man betrays nothing in his posture, all while he knows Pauling would like to get whatever this was done as soon as she could.

                “ _Me? Out a prison? That is the easy part. When Interpol is vested in your prosecution, and considering I am approaching forty, not so likely. Fine. Not as though I was doing anything earlier. And I doubt you would leave if I asked._ ” Lazare responds.

                At Lawrence’s assurance that Lazare was ready, Pauling started going through her files. She had many on him, and he wasn’t sure how concerned or impressed he should be. Significantly more than what Interpol could sort about him.

                “Hrm, you had your hand in everything. All kinds of illegal rings, but seems you liked taxis, tea houses, and hookah lounges. Oh. Convictions for prostitution. What are these numbers though, you weren’t a…?” she starts.

                “ _I was the prostitute._ ” He says.

                “Wait, really? You were the one who-.” She starts, “You know, interesting. Just uh, kinda thought it would have been beneath you.”

                Lazare snorts at the statement. Were he friendlier with her, he might mention the amount of trouble he could cause just from how he knew _exactly_ how to get people interested, no matter the gender. Doubted it would work on her, but he was still uncertain of her age, she seemed she was still a young adult. She’s probably his daughter’s age.

                “Alright, seems that you were hired within a well-known Spy cell… And, no records as to why you left, especially without being burned.” Pauling says, “I guess this has to do with whoever ‘the Queen of Navarre’ is.”

                “I heard of that Sheila, done a great deal across Europe in the second war.” Lawrence says.

                Good, neither of them have sorted that’s actually him. Means his best secret is still a secret, and he can relax.

                “ _She died years ago, no one believes me._ ” Lazare says.

                “ _I don’t believe you._ ” Lawrence responds.

                “Well, in either case, I am not particularly interested in that espionage mercenary.” Pauling says, “I am interested in you, and what I have of your Bona Fide… Well, let’s just say I heard of your reputation.”

                He offers no response, he wasn’t flattered. For one, his impressive work was during the second war (that is kept a close guarded secret). Two, he hated working for the espionage cell. And three, that cell did not forgive him for quitting.

                “Anyway, so you have a lot of records that I am sure you want… gone.” She says.

                “ _Aside from how I currently face the death penalty, pending my transfer to a French prison._ ” Lazare says.

                She has to get Lawrence to translate, something must have been difficult in translation. Or, perhaps there were some lies that he cleared (or worse, Interpol was lying to him).

                “Oh, that was what I heard.” Pauling says, “Pretty sure you’re aware the trial’s a bit of a farce and you’ll more than likely die by… what is it? Firing squad?”

                Lazare snorts. Misconception, he already knew what he faced given what he was charged with.

                “ _Only for those who committed crimes against the state. The people I tortured and killed were in no way related to the state._ ” He says.

                He’s not entirely sure if he would prefer a firing squad. He notices Lawrence lurch after processing what he meant.

                “ _Wait, they still behead people in France?_ ” Lawrence asks.

                “ _Are you actually that surprised?_ ” Lazare asks.

                “ _Most nations hang or shoot people._ ” Lawrence says.

                He shrugs, not particularly having much of an opinion on the matter. Wasn’t that the method bothered him, both were efficient in their own manners. Hopefully quick, but it wasn’t as though he knew what being shot to death nor losing his head would feel like.

                “ _As far as I am concerned, either method ends with me dead. Why should I care how they do it?_ ” he asks.

                 Lawrence grumbles, not particularly agreeing nor disagreeing with his statement. Pauling bites down on her lip, she had some inkling of what they spoke about, and seemed put off.

                “That was not what I was expecting. So _that’s_ why they said they needed a day.” she says.

                “… What do you mean?” Lazare asks.

                It’s the first English he spoken. He genuinely has no idea what she means by this. Pauling has too bright a smile, her entire mood shifted as though she now sees she has the upper hand.

                “Oh, uh, let me get to my… pitch? Like a sale’s pitch. Then you’ll understand what I mean.” She says.

                She hands him a folder, stamped with a company name Builder’s League United. Figuring that he may as well, he slips out of the handcuffs, beginning to read at his leisure. This was a job offer: his payment would be erased documents and an obscene amount of money. He would be required to be on a five year contract minimum, with opportunities to renew it should he choose.  
                Five years to the company, or his life. For many people, it was foolish to consider the alternative. What was five years to have a life after, with more money than he would ever know what to do with?  
                But he knew how these things worked. He knew he was not getting the entire story.

                “Any questions so far?” Pauling asks.

                “ _Sounds far too good to be true_.” Lazare comments in French.

                “ _I chose to work for them. Said about the same, but it’s a genuine offer._ ” Lawrence says.

                Ah. So the Australian would be a coworker. While he had no reason to dislike Lawrence so far, that was not enough to sway him. He was almost tempted to toss the file away, tell Pauling to go fuck herself.  
                He is far too much a gentleman to do that.

                “ _Why me? Why someone in my position?_ ” He asks.

                “That espionage cell you worked for, the former head of that branch recommended you by name.” Pauling says, “Part of how I have so much on you, and how the Administrator discovered you.”

                Explains a little, seemed that Pauling was just a messenger. Overall, he had mixed feelings. He leans against his arm, tapping a finger on the side of his face. Two options, which he was lacking information of one of them.  
                What did she mean by one day?

                “ _I don’t know Miss Pauling. This seems like a trap. What more could your boss want?_ ” he asks.

                “Nothing, except to take the deal.” Pauling says, “I mean, I don’t know why you would want the alternative. You’d essentially be saying you want to die.”

                That was what he was missing.  
                He glares at Pauling, pondering on how he should-.  
                No, calm down. If he acted on anger, lashing out at her, he would certainly die. He has a feeling the translator has a gun on him. That would be such a stupid way to die.  
                He inhales slowly, keeping his tone even when he switches back to English.

                “Stop toying with me. Say what you mean.” Lazare says.

                “Well, the only way the Administrator would plan this deal was if she had a failsafe in case you refused.” Pauling says, “Obviously you saw some top secret information, your eyes only. Well, offering this or prison where you would eventually be executed… with the risk of you escaping, that didn’t sound too great. So, she gave Interpol something they couldn’t refused. And Interpol would streamline whatever execution they deemed appropriate if you so happened to take your chances.”

                Which would take a day, so it would seem.  
                If it was firing squad, it would have been significantly sooner. But, with the thought that he could no longer flirt with the idea of getting away…  
                He started laughing.

                “Bloody hell, I think he’s off his rocker Pauling.” Lawrence says.

                “I would probably react the same way to an ultimatum like this.” Pauling admits.

                He was laughing at a very ironic not-quite-a-joke. Explaining it… Well, maybe if he ends up trusting Lawrence, he might explain it.  
                Everything he has done was based around irony. The Queen of Navarre was a play on his birth name. She was also the last Queen of France. Here Lazare was, laughing at the best irony of his life: potentially dying the same way Marie Antoinette did.  
                There were far too many parallels and it was too funny.

                “I don’t like you all that much Miss Pauling.” Lazare says, “But, maybe I will warm up to you. That was perhaps the best laugh I had in a while.”

                She claps her hands together, having that annoying smile he saw earlier. She excitedly chats about how she was going to enjoy working with him, and digs around inside her pockets. She provides him with a strange pill, and he’s suspicious once more.

                “Trust me on this, I heard you were not treated so well. It’s a pain killer.” She says.

                Or it’s cyanide.  
                Why would she go through the trouble?  
                He swallows it, despite his dry throat. She’s back to her chatter, going on about what sort of place New Mexico was and a place called Teufort. The effect of the pill is slow, but when he feels it, he’s almost tempted to start calling her an assortment of words.  
                It wasn’t a pain pill.

 

 

                It’s hours later when he wakes up in a train, with no idea where his destination would be. His head is pounding, groaning as he’s trying to sit up. He’s lying in a cot, missing his shirt but not his pants (he would have tried to kill someone if he was missing everything). In front is the Australian, who has a rifle perched against his shoulder.  
                Lazare got the hint. As much as he is willingly going along with this ultimatum, it would appear that there will be people who will assure he stays in line. He lays back down, wondering when the train would stop.  
                Food and a shower would be a nice start.

                “Mind saying why you considered refusing?” Lawrence asks.

                Why is he…?  
                Ah, this would be his teammate, he should be nice.

                “What is the English phrase, cannot have and eat the cake?” Lazare asks.

                “Don’t you say something involving butter in French?” Lawrence says, “Something about how you can’t have that and the money from selling it?”

                Well, there was a proverb that used something of the sort. They remain silent after a couple minutes, neither of them particularly sure of each other.  
                It’s Lawrence that breaks it.

                “I don’t get it. You’re free after five years. Why even think of saying no?” Lawrence says.

                “I would have been free on my own.” Lazare says, “A cage that happens to pay me is still a cage. I know enough people in specific circles who would provide my way out. While people are outraged at what I done, many more know why I did.”

                He smirks, shifting his position as he considers Lazare’s words.

                “Well… _Chacun voit midi à sa porte._ ” Lawrence says.

                Lazare gives yet another undignified snort at his comment. Of course everyone sees noon at his door.  
                Maybe he will like Lawrence, in time.

**Author's Note:**

> Chacun voit midi à sa porte- everyone sees noon at his door/to each their own
> 
> the joke (which will be unfunny after explaining this): the BLU Spy's birth name (that he mentions a lot in other works) is Antoinette. He done a great deal of his big spy stuff pre-transition. For whatever reason, he was The Queen of Navarre (which was a title Marie Antoinette held. because royalty held 30+ titles, usually). He's laughing at some fucked up gallows humor. Him, born Antoinette, facing death by beheading. The same way Marie Antoinette died.  
> He decided _fuck this irony in particular_ and went with the deal. There's some ironies that even Spies cannot appreciate.  
>  There was also a part where I debated him commenting "well, it's a dignified way to die, but I would get blood on my suit" but since there was no suit, I had to cut it.


End file.
